Just to avoid misunderstandings, here’s what you can and what you can’t expect:
[X] A married couple
[X] A man peeking through a window
[... ] Navy Seals, Karate, Ninyas, death stars
[... ] detailed sex scenes
[... ] Continuous orgasms for hours
[... ] Twelve inch cocks
[X] Some dude playing a guitar
[X] A woman dyeing her hair
[... ] A classic BTB ending
[X] a rather undramatic story
[... ] Dwarf tossing
There she is. The artist in me can’t help but admire this lovely and graceful woman. Just watching her has always left me breathless. Every movement, every gesture is perfectly feminine and performed with a controlled elegance. Her long, wavy mane is lying on her back. Her average sized, but very beautiful breasts are swinging beneath her. Her whole tanned, shapely body is a sight to behold. I can’t see her face completely, but I remember exactly what it looks like, in each and every lovely detail. No doubt, this woman is exceptionally beautiful. My wife. The scene unfolding itself in front of me could be the epitome of aesthetics if she was alone in the room. And if the room was some classy kind of salon, equipped with gold and crystal, rich woods and lush fabrics, illuminated by candles, with nice classical music in the background.
The reality is quite a bit more mundane unfortunately.
While she is beautiful and enticing as ever, the stout middle-aged guy huffing and sweating behind her, brutally pulling her backwards as he’s mauling and fucking her inconsiderately doggy style, is somehow tainting the whole image for me. This is definitely not some kind of Adonis with an attractiveness even vaguely matching hers. No, this is a plain and quite overweight man with unaesthetically jiggling chins and belly and a balding head. Rationally, her whole betrayal is not right. But for some inexplicable reason my brain is centered on the discrepancy in their looks. This man - I don’t know - he’s just way too ugly to rightfully be in the position he currently is.
As are the worn and crumpled sheets beneath them, the greasy carpet and the shabby furnishings. This whole motel doesn’t seem appropriate for her presence. It is like seeing a sparkling diamond in a pile of horse shit. The problem is that this is supposed to be MY diamond, at least I always assumed that, and that it feels like the horse shit is corrupting its beauty.
I’ve once read that some researchers have found out that usually partners of the same attractiveness get hitched. The picture in front of me is certainly contradicting this theory. But as little as he matches her, at least the sweating, ugly dude looks perfectly in place in the shabby motel room and the whole sordidness of this horrible betrayal. The whole picture is consistent, apart from her presence. She shouldn’t be here. For some reason I ponder the idea how much better my world would be if I had found a different woman in front of him. If my suspicions had turned out to be unjustified. But no luck, it is Laura that’s present in this shabby caricature of a motel room, being taken by this shabby caricature of a lover.
Until now I’ve considered myself a lucky man. My marriage has been something from a fairy tale, some pure and beautiful thing where the stars had aligned to make it happen. Instead, it is ending in the tawdriest and timeworn cliché of all, as Laura lets her boss fuck her in a cheap no-tell motel.
Women have told me I’m good looking in a rugged way. I can’t judge that, but what I do know is that I’m fit and lean. As a well-respected, but poorly paid artist I’ve never had problems having feminine companionship. But the chance of getting near a woman in Laura’s league had pleasantly surprised me.
We had met at one of the gigs of my band. Laura was the sort of woman who is noticed wherever she goes and like the other men around I couldn’t help gawking at her like a boorish idiot all the time. At first, she had looked a little bored and out of place, like she was only there as a favor to someone. As the evening went on, I could see her getting into the music with an intensity that was rare in our usually laid-back audiences. She had approached me directly after our set and had engaged me in an intense discussion about our music. To say that I was immediately in love with her would have been an accurate description of the situation. But I tried to play it cool, assuming that I has an ice cube’s chance in hell to start something serious with such a woman.
But after a while I finally understood that she was just as smitten as I was and as different as we were, we were drawn towards each other like magnets. As soon as we both realized this, the outcome was predictable and the result was total bliss for both of us. We spent our days discussing the weirdest things, having glorious sex and generally feeling very at ease with each other. It seemed like we had known each other forever. I had proposed her barely a year after that fateful gig and she had agreed before I had been able to finish the question. My life was perfect.
At least that’s what I’ve assumed so far. I’m right now in the process of falling from cloud ninety down to hard reality. It would hurt less if the drop height wasn’t so damn high.
The surroundings of their ungainly mating are something that really makes me wonder again. Here they are, two successful corporate lawyers, good income, respected, both married. Hell, this Ted Mercer guy owns their law firm, probably making more money each day than I do in a month. Still they are in this shabby bed. And apart from Laura’s natural grace, their whole mating looks cheap too. Loveless. Mechanical. Uncaring. It is like watching two dogs. They just do it because it needs to be done, but it seems mundane. Apart from the general disappointment of being cheated on, the cheapness of their coupling further soils her image in my mind and contributes to my confusion. Laura, how can you do this to me, to us? The tears threaten to start again, I feel like my blood is being drained from my head, my knees get weak. No, Tom, that mustn’t happen now. You will have your mourning period once this is over. Be tough, be uncaring now, be like all these macho assholes you never wanted to be like. Look at Mercer, he would take this in a stride. He would be mad because someone has cuckolded him and threatened his alpha male status. But he wouldn’t be heartbroken because he’s crazy in love with the woman that has betrayed him. He wouldn’t be depressed and crying like I am. Maybe life would be easier as an uncaring, selfish asshole. Maybe Mercer should be my new role model.
To distract myself from my self-pitying, I start to watch them again and I try to do it with some kind of clinical detachment. Laura’s behavior for example is interesting, it seems somehow wrong. She seems surprisingly disinterested in the whole thing. Usually she’s an attentive and enthusiastic lover, but right now she just seems to wait until it’s over. This apparently doesn’t go unnoticed by her lover. He contorts his face even more and increases his efforts by pounding her even harder. It looks like he is hard working, this doesn’t look like fun, even for him. Sweat is forming on his forehead and threatens to fall onto Laura’s back. The thought makes me sick again for some reason. It’s bad enough that he’s fucking her, but his disgusting sweat shouldn’t drop on the back of my woman. My woman? No, Tom, you have to get rid of that thought. She’s not yours any more.
He increases his tempo even further. “No, man, that’s wrong! That’s not how she likes it! Take your time, be gentle!” That’s what I almost want to shout. But of course, I don’t. What do I really know about her, after all? I have to question everything.
Maybe this guy knows her much better than I do. Maybe she never really was mine. Maybe she has faked everything while she was with me. Maybe she likes it a little rough and uncaring. Maybe she has never respected me, the poor useless musician. Maybe she always had a weakness for assertive, successful men. Maybe I should just go now.
I certainly don’t feel like I’m in a position to give anyone advice about her. What I thought to know about her has just turned out to be a big illusion. Ah, this damn self-pitying again. I hate myself for this, but I seem to revert to it again and again. It is self-destructive, but the role as a victim is oh so tempting and comfortable. No sense in pursuing this now, I already know that the full impact of what I’m seeing will hit me bad enough later. That it will lead to questions about my manhood, my sexual abilities, how shitty my life has turned out in general. But not now, right now I’m just staring at them and fight to keep my feelings at bay.
Mercer could really lose a few kilos. The flabby mass around his hips wobbles like jelly while he pounds into Laura’s lithe figure. This guy is no porn star material, still she has chosen him above me. This is quite a blow for my ego. All these hours at the gym, all these songs I’ve written for her, all the love I’ve shown her don’t seem to be that important to her.
Do I need photos, as some kind of evidence? No, Laura makes a lot more money than I do and I want nothing from her. That decision is already clear. I don’t want to earn any money from their betrayal, from the desecration of our vows, of our love. No money, no alimony, I want nothing but my freedom and the opportunity to restore my pride.
I had a strong suspicion that something was amiss for weeks. She was strangely distant, the sex had dropped to almost zero, she had dates, of course “work-related” ones only, almost every evening, she suffered from wild mood swings, but refused to talk about it and seemed to stay away from me as often as possible.
Damn, Mercer is really worth nothing. Not only am I endangering my marriage for this, it is also pathetic. If it is no fun, it is no cheating, right? That’s ridiculous, Laura. I just hope my darling Tom never has to find out about this. I wouldn’t survive losing him or hurting him this way. While I start to dream about Tom, Mercer seems to notice my mental absence and starts to ram his pathetic little thing even harder into me. Shit, I somehow have to survive this ordeal. But somehow I’m also relieved that this is so unpleasant and that he’s such a pathetic lover, it makes the betrayal more bearable. If I would derive any pleasure from this, the guilt would kill me on the spot.
In the beginning, our unlikely relationship had been like a dream for both of us. We were totally different, me the introverted, poor musician, she the assertive lawyer, earning good money. In the beginning, I suspected that the advances of this walking dream towards me were some kind of prank. When I finally came to the conclusion that she was serious, I was overwhelmed. I knew that she held my heart immediately and that she had the power to break it or to make me the happiest man on earth. But she had assured me to be relaxed, that she felt the same way. Tender and caring sex was something she hadn’t experienced before and she claimed that she had her first orgasms with me. I thought that I knew what she needed and took great care to provide it, so assuming she didn’t fake them, her orgasms became a regular occurrence in our bedroom.
I enjoyed loving and being loved by a confident and beautiful wife. Of course, our income differed vastly, but we did our best not to let that become an issue. In short - we were happy. At least I was - gloriously happy. I loved her little quirks, her smile, her laugh, the way she cuddled onto my shoulder, the way she panted when she had an orgasm, the way other men envied me when we entered a room. I sadly think that this will never happen again, none of it. I know it’s inevitable, but it’s still hard to let go.
Damn, if he could just fuck me a little gentler, then it would at least not hurt that much. But maybe that’s just what I deserve. I’m glad that we finally are in the fucking stage. Now I’m almost through with the whole thing. I will just let him fuck me a few times, get the big jobs and the knowledge, stop having sex with him by threatening to tell his wife, work a few years, get in contact with the important customers, learn the business tricks, then leave the asshole behind by quitting. Either start my own firm or go to some competitor. I just need the information and contacts. That prospect even makes his disgusting sweat dripping onto me a little more bearable. This damn bastard. I have to think of Tom again. My dear Tom, I just hope I can hold on to him during this whole shit. I hope he’ll never find out and never will get hurt. He’s just so fragile and he wouldn’t understand this. Money means nothing to him, that was always my responsibility. He wouldn’t understand my dilemma. He’s so honest and straight forward, he knows only black or white. Finding out would really hurt, no it would destroy him.
The price I have to pay for my little scheme already seems higher than expected. Even if Tom doesn’t find out, God forbid! Sex with Mercer is even worse than I had been able to imagine. How can his wife endure this? I turn around and see him grinning at me like he’s God’s gift to womankind. I have to force myself to look at least a bit interested while my body rocks under his assault. I had hoped that sex with him would be just boring and tedious. But actually, it’s repulsive. I feel cheap, like the whore that I essentially am. Damn, he starts hammering faster again. Has nobody ever told him how to please a woman? Has he maybe watched too many cheap porn movies and taken them seriously? I should try to feign more interest. At least he might slow down again then. I just hope the sweaty thing doesn’t want to kiss me again. I might have to puke if he does and my whole Plan would be busted.
She said she loved my body, my face, the way I cared for her, pampered her, cooked for her, the way I played the guitar and sang for her and the gentle and romantic way we made love. My meagre income as a substitute violinist in a various local orchestras didn’t seem to bother her at all. I like this profession: I have enough to live on, if little to spare, and I can spend my days and nights in the music I love.
We aren’t alike, by any means. I’m kind of laid-back, accepting the world pretty much as I find it. She is a little restless, curious, passionate, ambitioned and driven. I’m from a middle-class family and my parents always encouraged me to pursue my dreams, which was always deemed more important than economic success. Many of my relatives are interested in arts, none has ever gotten rich, none has ever been bothered about that. Her family consisted mainly of - well - rather simple people. Laura has always been some kind of star in her family. The only one to finish high school, even getting a scholarship and becoming a lawyer. They are immensely proud of her and had obviously always expected her to marry rich and influential. None of them had an artistic bone in their body and they regarded artists as mostly useless, never being shy to share this opinion with me. No, I wasn’t exactly the son in law of their dreams. And of course - her work was during the day; mine was mostly at night, which never made things easier.
In spite of it all I always thought we had melded together well. We had learned how to treasure each other’s strengths and build a stable, loving relationship that bridged our differences. Laura had an innate understanding of music that she had never suspected to have before meeting me, and she loved attending my performances. Her ambitious and focused mind might even have rubbed off on me as well, at least a little bit. As for sex? Laura was easily the best I ever had, and it only got better. Before Laura, I enjoyed sex, but never thought it could match the deeper joy I felt in making music. In the end, I wasn’t so sure: Laura brought to the act such a commitment to understand me completely, that I had begun to think of our couplings as duets, as intense as any music I knew. I felt that I had grown considerably during our marriage.
Money had never bothered me much until I met her. I was a little insecure about that aspect at first because I had always assumed women like her were looking for strong, successful alpha males. But she was relentless in reassuring me that this didn’t matter to her, so I relaxed after a while. Of course, these insecurities flared up again in full force now.
Laura had been excited about her work with the Mercer firm and had talked enthusiastically about her work. She had never concealed that she respected her boss a lot, seemingly bordering on adoration. As soon as she realized that this bothered me, she tried to reassure me that this was just on a professional level. But the uneasy feeling never left me. I had met Mercer socially a couple of times: he wasn’t imposing physically, but I could imagine him being very successful in a courtroom. Over the last few months, however, she had stopped talking about work, and snapped at me if I pressed her. I thought we had developed good communication skills, but those skills suddenly didn’t seem to work anymore when it came to her work. Then, a few weeks ago, we had stopped having sex. She claimed to be tired from work, so she couldn’t wait up for me after my gigs.
I came to bed one night after a gig to find Laura asleep, curled tightly into a ball, with my pillow clutched tightly in her arms, her face almost buried in it. Her pillowcase was wet, almost soaked through and smeared with her mascara.
“Laura – Laura, sweetheart, please – what’s wrong? What’s the matter?” I whispered gently to her, caressing her face, feeling the tears there.
“Oh, Tom!” Her usually decisive voice was almost inaudible, and trembled so I could hardly understand the words.
“Tom, I love you so much, and I believe in you so much, and I want only the best for you...” Her voice died away in quiet sobs.
“I already have the best, Laura. She’s right here. I don’t need or want anything more.” I meant every word I said, but Laura wept as if her heart would break.
“Please, Tom. Tell me you love me. Hold me, Tom, keep me safe, and tell me you love me.”
Of course, I did as she asked.
“Tom, I love you. Tom, my darling, please tell me you believe me that I love you more than anything in this world.”
That confused and bothered me a lot. What had happened? Why was she suddenly so emotional? But of course I did as requested and assured her that I knew how much she loved me.
I held her, and eventually we both fell asleep.
A couple of days later, Laura told me an obvious lie about where she would be this afternoon. I followed her, and here I am now. With a final glance at my beautiful wife – ex-wife, I suppose, now – I have to turn away from the window. Since I seem to be still breathing, I suppose there are things I ought to do.
First - I have to come to grips about my dream world having collapsed after only two blissful years. I still have problems to process the whole enormity of what I’m just seeing. My impossible dream ends right now, while I have to watch her through the motel window mating with her boss. Annoyingly, I still love her, but I know that I will have to get over her. The fact that my worries about her priorities have turned out true doesn’t really give me any satisfaction. I always feared something like this would happen, but now that it did, it still hurts so much. She has chosen money over love. Like I always assumed she would.
It seems that our home was just some cheap hotel room for her, with a convenient all-inclusive service by her otherwise useless hubby. A service she recently only used to crash into bed late in the evening and leave early in the morning. Yeah, sure, supposedly it was because of some important case. But I’m not fooled any more, we are finished. All I really have to do is to get into my car and get away. I can take care of finding a lawyer for the divorce later. Getting away is what’s important now. I feel that fleeing is the only way to save some remainder of my sanity.
I have received an offer for a full time violinist position at a much larger orchestra a while ago. Today I will finally accept the job. Even if it means to leave my position as the guitar player and lead singer in my old band because of the move to the big city. These guys are some kind of family to me, more than Laura recently managed to be. That separation hurts, but it needs to be done.
Do I want revenge on Mercer? Destroy his marriage with photos maybe? No, as far as I can tell, his marriage is already dead. It’s just a matter of time until his wife finds out and I feel it’s none of my business to interfere with that. I’m repulsed by him and I don’t want to interact with him at all. Should I destroy their reputation at their company maybe? No. Probably all of them are fucking around and I don’t see the sense in childish games. He’s the boss anyway, nobody will get fired. I just want out. Out of this humiliating and hurtful marriage. Just get away, start a new life, try to forget the good times I’ve had with her.
So I take one last look at her, turn around and slowly walk to my old truck. I place my hands on the steering, dump my head onto them, sigh and just barely manage to avoid crying again. No, Tom, get your shit together, start your new life, leave the crap behind. Yes. Better. I take two deep breaths, start the truck and just drive away, towards my new life. It’s the start of something new, but it definitely is no joyous moment. I feel empty, sad and disillusioned.
Thank god, he has finished, it’s over. Of course, he doesn’t care if I’ve reached an orgasm. I think I’ve been farther away from having one than I’ve been at my last root canal treatment. How many times will I have to do this to keep him in line? Three times? Four? I hope it will be enough if I can stretch the spans in between. I urgently need to shower now, preferably using sandpaper instead of soap. I need to get rid of his stink and I have to avoid his attempts to kiss and cuddle. Shit, he looks at me like a puppy. He really seems to have it bad for me.
I see some movement behind the curtains.
“Ted, you haven’t closed the curtains. Shit, I just hope nobody has seen us.”
“Don’t worry, honey. Nobody knows we’re here.”
“Yeah, I just hope you’re right.” I have a brief vision of Tom watching us and the idea alone is enough to start a small panic attack. I can’t wait to get back to my soft, beautiful angel, the best thing that has ever happened to me.
I arrive at our house full of anxiety. I’ve kept secrets from Tom in the past, but this is the first time I’ve done something really bad. God, I’ve actually cheated on him. Well, technically I have. Emotionally I haven’t, I rationalize. Nonetheless, I feel like shit and have to concentrate on putting up a straight face as I exit my car. I have to act flawlessly now, otherwise my darling Tom will get hurt. I have to avoid that at any cost. He’s too precious to be drawn into the shit I currently have to fight my way through.
I gather myself, unlock the door, trying to look happy and relaxed. The house seems so dark and silent.
“Tom? I’m home.”
“Tom? Where are you, honey?”
I look into the kitchen, the den, everywhere. He’s not at home. Damn, I really would have liked to get over this. I fear the moment I first see him. I fear that he will know everything as soon as he sees me. Damn, why has my life to be so difficult? I just want to make a decent living for myself and my dear husband.
I go to the bedroom to undress and take another shower. I still feel dirty. Damn, getting into the inner circle of corporate lawyers is like getting into Fort Knox. Worse, you can only get in if you are already inside. Mercer is just business, Laura. He’s my ticket to get inside. I just hope this ticket won’t bite me in the ass. Damn, maybe I should’ve become an architect or a doctor. Then my ambition wouldn’t have forced me to cheat. Or would it? Is there a Mercer for an ambitioned woman in every business? Am I just a whore? Shit...
Okay, get rid of these thoughts and these clothes, Laura. Maybe I should burn them ritually.
What... ? Where are... ? Where are Tom’s clothes? No, no, no. This has to be ... Tom, don’t do this. I feel the tears forming. NO! Don’t you dare to cry, bitch. You’re tough. You’re strong. You don’t break down like a little girl. Take action. Think. Okay, the situation is difficult. What do I know? Tom somehow knows or at least suspects something. He has left you at least temporarily. It doesn’t matter how he’s found out. The question is just - what do I do now? How can I make this right? How can I survive without his love? How can I bear the thought of losing him? More important - how can I prevent it from happening?
I call him although I know it will hurt. Don’t cry now, be strong when you talk to him. Crying and pleading will just make things worse.
At eleven in the evening Laura finally seems to have come home again to find me absent. As expected, my phone rings. I have no intention to hide from her, so I take the call.
“Tom? Tom, honey, where are you? We need to talk.” Her tone is surprisingly neutral. Either she doesn’t care or she’s hiding her feelings pretty good. Where has the confident, but honest and caring woman I had fallen in love with gone? Has she ever been there or have I maybe deluded myself all this time?
“I’m in my truck.” I know that this doesn’t explain anything, but she knows me well enough to guess what’s going on.
For several seconds nobody says a thing.
“May I ask why you’re in your truck at eleven in the night?” she finally asks. Her true emotions begin to shine through and I feel that she’s anxious.
“What do you think, Laura? Make a guess.”
“Honey, your clothes seem to be gone. Whatever you think has happened, let’s talk about it before you make hasty assumptions.”
“So there’s nothing you’d like to tell me?”
“Nothing of real relevance for our relationship, no. I’m not proud of what I’ve done recently, but my situation is more complicated than you know. Nothing I’ve done changes the fact that I love you and only you.”
Not bad. It is a first step towards the truth. She has begun to put her cards on the table, but only some of them.
“What does that mean? What have you done?”
“Tom, I’ve had sex with Mercer. Only one time and only for a defined purpose. I’m just using him. It was terrible and we’ve used a condom. I feel repulsed by his body. It was a nightmare, even before I’ve realized that you’ve left me. Tom, I begin to understand that it was a huge mistake but it never had anything to do with our love. It was never relevant for our marriage.”
Good, she has confessed everything. Somehow I appreciate that, although it changes nothing. We’re not in court, where a confession can be expected to lessen the verdict. This might come as a surprise for my dear lawyer wife.
“I’ve seen you and Mercer. I have these pictures in my mind. I can see some relevance in that.”
“Oh shit ... shit ... shit. Sorry you had to see this.”
“It was hard to ignore. I tried my best but your recent behavior was just too obvious.”
“Okay, I see. I’ve tried to hide this shit from you, but I guess I’ve fucked that up. I better not play Poker with you. Tom ... sorry. Really, I’m sorry. It was just a business necessity. It has nothing to do with us. Tom, I’ll be completely honest, do you have any questions?”
She sounds stricken now, almost in panic. This is quite unlike Laura.
“Nothing? Why I’ve done it? If I’m going to continue it? Tom, please let’s talk about it.”
“No, I don’t care.”
“So you’ve already made up your mind?” Her voice sounds different again, sad and resigned.
“Yes. I have already left you.”
“I see. Tom, I love you, only you. Please keep that in mind. I’m sorry it has to end this way.”
“So am I.” I think I sound as crestfallen as I feel.
“It’s not necessary, you know? I still adore you and I feel nothing at all for him.”
“Even if this is true, it doesn’t matter. Not with these pictures in my mind.”
“I see. I’m not going to see you again, am I?” She definitely starts to cry now. I will do that later.
“Probably not, no.”
“Sorry ... Tom, sorry for all of this.” She is openly sobbing. “You ... you don’t deserve it. I ... Tom, love you. I wish you all the best.” She’s talking quickly, like she wants to use these final seconds to say everything of relevance.
“Yes, I wish you all the best too.” And I just hang up, feeling empty and sad. I thought that watching her with Mercer was my life’s low point, but somehow this is even worse. I’ve really lost her for good now. She’s not mine any more. It’s over. I’m alone.
Shit, I’ve really lost him. Shit. What can I do? I need to do something. I can’t just lose him. I can’t just give up, that’s not an option. I need a Plan. Something need to be done, even if I never get him back. He has been aggrieved, he needs to be reimbursed, however I manage to do that. I need a Plan.
It’s always been like this. I’ve always been the one with a Plan. My childhood friends and my family had been mostly clueless, so having Plans was always my responsibility. Sometimes they didn’t work, like the one with Mercer. But quite often they had. When I was nine, I had figured out how to get my class’s pet kitten to come down out of the tree. Nobody regarded me as bossy or domineering because of my Plans, not even myself. But I couldn’t help noticing people usually seemed willing to go along with my Plans. “Laura will have a Plan, and it will work,” they said. It almost always did. Amazingly, this sometimes even included my parents.
My parents didn’t have much, and what they had, they didn’t use well. My mother had once been pretty, but had been rode hard and put away wet far too many times, by too many men. My father called himself a laborer, but didn’t do enough actual work to justify the title. I, as their oldest child, had by some genetic miracle received more brains than either of them, and their example gave me the determination to develop and use those brains.
As I grew from a mousy, but clever little girl into a young woman, the attention of the men around me left no doubt that I was quite attractive. From the age of sixteen on, every man around me seemed to constantly watch me. At first I had been unsettled and assumed something was wrong with me. Then, understanding that they desired me and wanted sex, I felt threatened. After a while I learned to control their attention and to use it to my advantage. I also learned that it opened doors that remained closed for a plain girl.
With the bad example of my mother before me, though, I was determined to never consciously use sex to get what I wanted. I tried to be fair and courteous to everyone, regardless of background, but built a wall around me to block actual sexual advances.
Maybe overdoing to avoid my mother’s fate, my social life was almost nonexistent, though not for lack of opportunity. I surprised myself by accepting the invitation of a female colleague to a club, to hear a band I’d never heard of. It must have been a weak moment, I told herself, as I stood along the wall at one side of the club, wondering what exactly I was doing there. Slowly, though, the music got to me. I found myself listening to it more and more intently, being drawn into it in a way I never would have imagined possible. I lost track of time. It wasn’t just the music that enticed me, it was also the alluring voice of this singer and guitar player that had an almost hypnotic effect on me.
I wasn’t the woman to experience something like that without investigating. As the band was packing, I strode up to the singer, and asked him point blank why the music had so moved me. He was very sweet and took his time to talk about his music. I had never thought much about music, but with Tom, I discovered a deep innate appreciation for the art. It was as if he showed me a whole new world inside myself.
Then there was the sex. Tom’s typical unassuming and charming way made him irresistible for me. I was in his bed in no time and I think I have probably dragged him there even more than he did me. Tom’s combination of fierce passion and tender caring won me completely, and I strove, quite successfully I hope, to return it in kind. There was never any question about sharing myself with anyone else: I was Tom’s completely from the beginning. I would try anything with Tom, but he never asked for much.
My romance with Tom was the first major event in my life for which I had no Plan. He was the only person I had ever met whom I could trust that much. That didn’t mean I was clueless, of course: when he proposed, I had my answer ready. One word: Yes! The poor guy wasn’t even able to finish his question. Not that he seemed to mind.
After I finished law school, I had a reasonable amount of job offers, but none of the high powered, high paid, interesting stuff I had dreamed of. But I at least wanted the mid-term opportunity to gain such a position by hard work. The Mercer firm seemed ideal for me: it was small enough that I could rise quickly, it was diverse enough to be active in several areas of legal practice, and Mercer himself was one of the most respected attorneys in the state. I eagerly accepted Mercer’s offer, and began work on my Plan.
As my marriage to Tom flourished, my Plan expanded. I saw how frustrated Tom was when he had to take gigs he didn’t like. I could tell the difference, too: I still went to most of his gigs, and within the first ten minutes could tell whether this was something Tom would do for love, or money. Now my Plan had a second goal: to make enough that Tom would only have to do gigs he loved, and could spend the rest of his time practicing and writing. Since both goals would be achieved as I rose in the firm, it was doubly important to me to do so.
Of course Mercer had his eye on me. Men always did that; I was used to it by now. Unfortunately, in spite of the fact that we were both married, Mercer took it into his head to fall in love with me. Not lust, real romantic love. Flowers on my desk, silly notes, the whole nine yards. Even this was bearable, if rather disgusting, until that day in Mercer’s office.
Mercer had known my ambitions; I had been quite clear about them in my interview. He now told me I would never achieve them unless I “let him love me,” as he put it. I would be tied up with penny-ante cases that could probably be handled by a second-year law student; the big reputation-making cases would be assigned elsewhere.
“You know how I feel about you, Laura. You’ve never even given me a chance. I know I’m not as good looking, well built or young as your husband, but you may come to like me – even love me. I do have my qualities, just give me the chance to prove myself. All I want is a chance to love you.”
“Mr. Mercer, stop this. We’re both married. I’m faithful to my husband. That means I don’t give you, or anyone else, a chance, as you put it.”
“Very well, Laura. I guess I’ll have to assign the Westmoreland case to Hoskins.”
“Hoskins? Mr. Mercer, you know he can’t handle that case, and you know I can. Think of the firm, think of our reputation.”
“Perhaps that’s true. Perhaps I may need to help him out a bit. But that is my decision.” I stared at my shoes, as if I could find a Plan in them.
“What do you mean by ‘a chance to love me’?”
Mercer smiled. “Don’t worry, Laura. I’ll be discreet; we’ll do nothing here. But you will meet me when I say, and where I say, and do what I say.”
“For how long?”
Mercer’s smile broadened. “Until I feel you’ve given me a fair chance.”
I held out for six stress-filled weeks, then I capitulated. After the first make out session with Mercer, I was so ashamed that I couldn’t let Tom touch me. The day he made me blow him after work in the break room, I almost broke; Tom found me in tears in our bed. Now it had all gone to hell in a hand basket because Tom had seen me with Mercer in that disgusting motel room.
Yes, I had sex with him. Could you even call it sex? Yes, I suppose I was having sex with Mercer, technically. But after what I had with Tom, calling this ‘sex’ was like calling a toddler banging on a bowl with a spoon ‘music.’ Nothing he did engaged even a small piece of my mind or heart.
Still, it is clear that Tom certainly considers it sex. Not that I can blame him. Oh, Tom. He must never have known about this shit. This wasn’t how the Plan was supposed to work; it was supposed to make Tom happy, not to destroy our marriage. And certainly not to turn his wife into the lying, cheating prostitute I am now. There is no point mincing words: I’d used the same words to describe my mother. Now here I am, more like my mother than I ever could have imagined.
The thought of my mother settled it. Scrub the Plan. Mercer would have my resignation tomorrow. Let him blackball me; I would work as a paralegal, a secretary, anything. The problem with Plans is, you get attached to them. I had stuck to this one too long, without noticing it. I had sacrificed too much for it. Way too much. When your goals change – and Tom’s love is way more important to me than any goal I’d ever had - you need to reconsider your Plans. Unfortunately, it seems like I have already lost him. I’d better revise my Plans, quickly. Think, Laura. Think.
Yes. Yes, I see it now. That might work. It will be tough, but I’m strong enough for it. And I will endure it gladly for Tom. I have a Plan. THE PLAN. The big one.
I’m not going to quit my job. I need it for my Plan. And most of all, I need Mercer. I desperately need Mercer.
Now I have a Plan for the most important task in my whole life. I just hope it will work. Only time will tell. I will do everything I can, sacrifice everything I have if I need to.
Two years later.